


Victory Shag

by loveanddeathandartandtaxes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Case Sex, more or less
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 15:39:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveanddeathandartandtaxes/pseuds/loveanddeathandartandtaxes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It becomes habit. Solve a stressful case; have sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victory Shag

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scullyseviltwin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/gifts).



The sex started maybe six months after a black car crawled along the road beside John until he obediently stopped and climbed in to find his dead best friend was not, in fact, dead.

 

* * *

 

“My _God_ , I could go for a victory shag right now,” he had announced on their return to 221B.

“What on earth is that,” Sherlock asked flatly, shrugging off his coat and hanging it, dripping, on its hook.

“You know.” John sniffed a dishtowel hanging over the sofa and dried his hair with it. Sherlock seemed content to stand in the living room with soaking clothes clinging to his skin. “‘We aced our finals’ or ‘I operated on a _real live person_ for the first time and they’re still real and alive’ or ‘we survived that skirmish’. If it’s been a stressful season, ‘our team just won’ counts too.”

“You want a ‘we discovered, chased down, and captured a philosophical murderer’… shag. That is incredibly uninspired.”

“Try it some time,” John retorted.

“Very well,” Sherlock had said, and deftly unbuckled John’s belt.

 

* * *

 

“Uh, Sherlock?”

“Morning. Tea?”

“Yes, ta.”

“Brilliant. I’ll have one too.”

John sighed. Clearly that conversation was not going to happen.

 

* * *

 

Their next case, a relatively simple affair of stolen jewellery and long-held family grudges, ended only with delivered Chinese takeaway and an obscenely expensive bottle of wine.

It was followed, later that night, by John slipping a hand into his pyjamas as he lay in bed, listening to his flatmate’s haunting violin-playing. He told himself he was not disappointed.

 

* * *

 

John shut the door and locked it casually, trying not to look like he was keeping landladies and brothers and detective inspectors away from interrupting him – them. His friend paced into the kitchen and back again.

“Does that count?” he demanded abruptly.

“Does what count what?” John asked.

“Were the stakes sufficiently high that our success warrants one of your ‘victory shags’?”

“Oh.” John felt his eyebrows rise. He reached out, began undoing overworked buttons. “Yes. God, yes.”

Much like the last time – the first time – mouths panted against brows and jaws and necks and collarbones and shoulders, while shaking hands delved into the other’s trousers. John groped around from Sherlock’s straining cock to his plush arse and took two handfuls.

“We could,” he started and swallowed. “We could maybe take this to your room. Better than – ah – than leaning up against the bookshelf.”

“No. Your room.” Sherlock’s voice left, as always, no room for argument. “I want you in me and you will no doubt want to use a condom. Your room.”

 

 

John had not done this before. It felt exceedingly normal for Sherlock to instruct him in clinical detail, even with his imperious baritone giving way to breathy moans.

“Fucking _hell_ ,” he breathed as he eased his cock into the tight ring of muscle. He could see Sherlock’s chest expand and deflate with carefully even breaths.

“Wait, just a moment, there.”

“Are you alright?”

“Just give me a minute.” So John paused where he was, straddling his thigh and absently running his hands over as much arse and back as he could reach.

“Yes.” Sherlock adjusted the pillow under his hips, shifted the leg he had bent up next to his ribs out to the side a little more, then rested his head on his forearms. “You can move now. Please.”

“Well, if you’re going to be polite,” John quipped, pushing in a fraction further before rocking back slowly. The next gentle thrust went a little deeper, and the next deeper again.

 

 

“Can you come like this? Do I need to…?”

“Nngh. Maybe. Try leaning forward more; brace yourself on the mattre-ess! Like that. You can pick up speed, you know; ‘glacial’ is really only necessary at the start.”

“Maybe I like it slow,” John teased, snapping his hips against Sherlock before dragging back excruciatingly gradually.

“Of course you fucking do,” Sherlock grumbled into the sheet, but John obligingly settled into a satisfying rhythm. He breathed against Sherlock’s undulating back, draping himself more completely over him.

When he felt the tension curling tighter within him, he nipped at the other’s shoulder blades and whined.

“Yes, John. Do it.”

Dropping to one elbow, he used his other hand to tip Sherlock’s hips a little more to one side, reaching around to stroke him more or less in time with his increasingly erratic thrusts.

“Harder. I won’t break.”

 

 

After, John was careful to wipe most of the lube off Sherlock’s buttocks, throwing the tissues in the bin with the condom.

“It’s fine,” he rumbled. “I’ll go have a shower.”

“Right,” John said automatically. He wondered what to do about his pillow, with Sherlock’s mess ground into it.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock, cheeky bastard that he was, had stashed condoms and lube in his trouser pockets. When John obediently reached into Sherlock’s pocket at a secondary crime scene for his phone and discovered the prophylactics, he pulled his hand away as if burned.

“My other pocket,” Sherlock intoned. John suspected he could hear a trace of amusement, and matched the wry tone.

“Plans for tonight, then?” He slipped the mobile from Sherlock’s pocket, briefly pushing his fingertips against the not-entirely-soft cock trapped in those pants.

“I - It’s worth being prepared. For any eventualities.”

“I’m not _actually_ opposed to having an ‘eventuality’ in the closest alleyway to wherever we end up on this case,” he joked while he texted Mycroft as instructed. “But I was thinking of just bending you over your sofa.”

“Plans, John?”

 

 

That evening saw Sherlock braced against the sofa and John wasn't sure if he wanted to gloat about that or worship the body shuddering before him more. He bit his cheek against either. Three cases later, he whispered praise about planning as they concluded that eventuality.

 

* * *

 

“I was thinking we could try something different.” The suggestion came from Sherlock as they shed clothes.

“Mm?”

“If you’re amenable, I will suck you while I prepare you, then I will penetrate you.”

John flushed. “I-”

“I know it’s not something you’re familiar with, and I will of course stop at any time if you don’t like it.”

“Alright.”

“You needn't be concerned that I am unsatisfied with the current arrangement, but I think there is the potential that you may enjoy an option for… variety.”

“Sounds good,” he croaked, already so turned on that he _hurt_.

“Yes?” Sherlock asked, and damn if he wasn't beautiful like that.

“Yes.”

Sherlock had him lay back, propped up by pillows with his knees bent up and his feet spread wide. Large hands rubbed his thighs soothingly, and the thought of Sherlock doing anything to soothe someone made him huff in amusement.

“You must tell me how you feel,” he insisted before shifting down and taking the head of John’s cock in his mouth.

“Aah, yep! Jesus, Sherlock, a little warning?”

He hummed two notes that _sounded_ like an “okay” but _felt_ like John was a teenager again, drunk on hormones more than cheap booze, feeling a mouth on him for the first time, wrung to climax by his sister’s friend, unfathomably womanly and experienced and two years his senior.

Tentatively he sifted his fingers through dark curls and breathed raggedly as Sherlock licked around the head then took more of him in his mouth. The fingers curled around the base of him slid gently down, momentarily toying with his scrotum before continuing. John tried not to tense, but knew Sherlock could tell he was not entirely successful. Instead of continuing, Sherlock rested his fingers against John’s perineum and pulled his luscious mouth off John’s cock. John quelled a ridiculous urge to run his fingers over cheek- and jaw-bones.

“You’re apprehensive,” he said, his eyebrows crinkling a little.

“Well, yeah.”

“I asked you to tell me how you feel.”

“It feels good,” he assured his friend. The fingers shifted back and forth, massaging the sensitive skin there.

“It feels really good. It’s just nerves, Sherlock. I trust you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah” he breathed, and grunted as he was swallowed down again, feeling the tip nudge against the back of Sherlock’s throat at the same time as he felt a light pressure over that sensitive pucker.

“Oh,” he said. The pressure increased incrementally and traced tiny circles. “Yeah.”

With a single finger pressed right at the centre, Sherlock redoubled his attention on John’s cock, his tongue doing truly sinful things up the shaft.

“Um, I think – I think maybe you better not do that so much, if, if you want me to last long enough to…”  
Immediately both tormenting sensations vanished, and Sherlock shifted a little.

“Let me get the lube,” he murmured. When his hands returned, one rested warmly on his leg and the other, cool and slick, circled insistently at his hole.

“I will begin to stretch you now.”

“Yes.”

And then the tip of Sherlock’s finger was inside him.

“H-huh.”

“John?”

“No, no it’s okay, it’s… I don’t know. It’s not bad. A bit too weird to call it good, but… mm.”

A dark velvet chuckle made him smile in response and relax more. Sherlock pushed his finger in further, pumping it slowly. He hunkered down once more and lavished open-mouth kisses down John’s shaft. His erection had flagged a little, he realised as it hardened again. Familiar sensations tangled together with the new and John threw an arm over his eyes.

“Christ, yeah that’s brilliant.”

“Two fingers now?”

“Whatever you think. I trust you.”

To distract him this time – and John had realised that’s what it was– Sherlock laved his tongue over his bollocks, sucking one and then the other into his mouth. John’s hips bucked, pressing up towards Sherlock’s mouth and down onto those maddening fingers invading him.

“Something new now,” was all the warning he got before Sherlock crooked his fingers. They shifted inside him and bent a little again.

“Um,” said John. “Oh, you’ll be looking fff-“

“I believe I found it,” Sherlock smiled.

“Yeah... Again? Gently, but, but that’s good.”

Sherlock obliged.

 

 

“Alright,” Sherlock said, his voice cracking slightly. They had not spoken in some minutes.

“Alright?”

“Are you ready?” He slipped his three fingers from John’s arse.

John moaned at the loss of those fingers inside him. “ _Yes._ ”

Sherlock was rolling on a condom.

“Lie on your side,” he instructed. “Curl your legs up in front of you.”

With a final slick of lube, Sherlock lay behind him and positioned himself at his entrance.

“Oh, shit,” John gasped, and Sherlock tensed.

“Are you – is this too – no? It’s – it’s alright if you don’t want to-“

“No, no, it’s not that.” He reached behind him, slid fingers down a lean arm to grasp a wrist and bring Sherlock’s hand to rest on his waist. “This is definitely a yes. I need you inside me.” John had a pride approaching vanity about his ability to wring such a phrase from his lovers but had never had cause to even consider uttering it himself. Sherlock’s hand on him squeezed his hip lightly and was gone and then the blunt pressure was pushing into him and cleaving him in two and John breathed and bore down and reminded himself that overwhelming _sensation_ did not mean _pain_.

John breathed again. Sherlock was moulded against him, pressing against him and into him from his nape to his calves. The hand was back on his hip, and John took it and tangled their fingers together.

“I think I’m ready for you to move,” he admitted encouragingly, but received no response.

“Sherlock?” He squeezed his fingers and tried to twist to look at him, but could only catch a glimpse of glossy curls. Gingerly he shifted his hips, and a keening whine began from behind him.

“Sherlock?”

“ _John_ ,” he mumbled raggedly. “You let me – you let me _inside_ you. Why would you want this? You feel so wondrous, John. I don’t understand.”

“I wanted it because you wanted me to. I don’t know. But Christ, Sherlock, I’m so ready to come. I think I’ll pass out if you don’t get this going.” He rolled his hips again, pleased with the waves of sensation it sparked. Sherlock shuddered briefly and moved with him. The thrusts became more forceful but not faster, a slow push, a hard grind, a lingering pull.

Their entwined hands shifted to wrap around John’s leaking cock.

“Ready when you are, love,” he murmured.

 

* * *

 

John’s last remaining inch of privacy had become a fiercely guarded thing long before Sherlock’s hiatus. (He hated that term for it, the connotation that he was not Working, but thinking of it like that didn't make John too shaky, which made it the best option.) When a letter addressed to John from a clinic sat on the table for a full day - obviously opened and reinserted in the envelope - Sherlock took it as the invitation that it was. Just to torment him, John left the one addressed to Sherlock that arrived the following week alone for three days before checking.

 

* * *

 

“Come up, up, on your knees, please,” John urged. “I can’t bloody _touch_ you when you’re flat out like this.”

Sherlock shakily got his knees under his arse, resting his head on his forearms. John slid into him again, his grip on the bony hips easing and sliding up Sherlock’s body.

“ _Up_ ,” he insisted, pulling and lifting until Sherlock was kneeling upright in front of him.

“Good. Now come with me,” he said, pulling Sherlock’s pliant body with him as he sank back to sit on his heels. With him practically sitting on John's lap, pale legs framing his own, he was drowning in Sherlock and it was just what he needed. From here John could touch him everywhere, so he did, tickling up calves and thighs, teasing over shaft and testicles or even touching disbelievingly where they were joined. He stroked smoothly over stomach and ribs and carefully pinched tight nipples. They rocked and thrust together and Sherlock arched his back and dropped his head to one side. If John stretched he could sample that throat with lips and tongue. Clearly he was more worked up than John had realised; he clenched around him and cried out softly. With a few fast and firm strokes John had him coming, spasming around and against and on him, which was all John needed to empty himself inside the quivering heat.

 

* * *

 

A foil square was pressed into his palm. He stared at it, mute.

“I know that this routine we have does not constitute a ‘relationship’ so I shan't say anything on that topic, but in the interests of the health of all parties involved I think it best that we resume wearing condoms.”

“I - What?”

“It is… it is of course within your rights to continue to seek out girlfriends.”

John replayed Sherlock’s last two sentences in his head with a sinking feeling in his gut.

“Sherlock, if you’re dating somebody else I don’t think it would be fair to him for us to continue doing this at all. I wouldn't be comfortable with that.”

“There’s no-one else for me.”

“Then what… Nor me, Sherlock, shit! Is this - did you think my going out the other night was a _date_?”

“Was it not?”

“I went out for drinks with some people from work. Yes, they’re mostly women. Yes, I got a little drunk. Yes, I probably ended up smelling like Mari, I assume that’s what this is about. She was significantly drunker than I, and leant on me all night. She also told me she wants to meet my partner. You,” he added when Sherlock looked at him blankly.

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her that you’re not very sociable.”

“ _John_.”

“I didn't tell her - them - anything about _us_. People assume what they want. Anyway, they’re not wrong, are they.”

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment. Then, despite John being quite sure all the arousal in the room had disappeared, he found himself being quite expertly stripped.

 

 

Sherlock rode him hard and fast - _desperately_ , his mind supplied. When he came (beautifully, all over John) he gasped out a strangled sound that was almost a sob. He slumped over John as he bucked up into him, and after their cursory wipe-down lay inert beside him.

 

* * *

 

He was slamming the great bloody idiot against their wallpaper, scrabbling for his flies.

“What the fuck were you thinking? I was - shit, Sherlock, I was maybe thirty seconds behind you, and you couldn't wait for me to back you up?”

It was more than a bit not good that he was as hard as he was, given that he was so angry he could barely see straight and half an hour ago he was so worried he could barely _breathe_. But the case was over and this particular Pavlovian response had been thoroughly reinforced.

“I knew you would be there,” Sherlock told him, not for the first time.

“The hell you did! You could've, oh God, could've died.”

“I’m alright.”

John sucked in air frantically.

“You’re alright. Yes. Yes. Christ. I need to be in you; I need to feel you.”

“Yes John, yes.”

He kicked off his shoes and batted away Sherlock’s hands.

“Your room. Go. Go.”

Sherlock turned to John once they stood before the bed, clearly not expecting to be shoved back onto the mattress.

“I’m still so angry with you,” John bit out as he swung a leg over to sit on Sherlock’s thighs. “Anything could have happened.”

“I’m alright, it’s alright.” Long fingers traced down the sensitive skin of his inner forearms while he fumbled with buttons.

“No it is _not_ alright. I could have lost you.” Looking and touching were no longer confirmation enough that Sherlock was alive and well. Leaning down, he pressed his tongue, hard, over one nipple then another. He shifted down, nipping quivering abdominal muscles with lips and teeth.There was a bit of a scuffle while they shoved and kicked off trousers, before John settled back down between Sherlock’s legs and licked a wet stripe right up the length of his cock. He instantly tensed and curled in on himself, breathing hard against the top of John’s head. Almost as quickly, he leaned back again, propping himself up on an elbow.

“You alright, love,” John asked earnestly. Sherlock nodded silently, not looking at John.

“Pass me the lube, then.” Receiving the bottle, he slicked up his fingers and worked one into Sherlock as he inexpertly took the head of his cock into his mouth. He wasn't particularly sure of what he was doing, but the gentle stroking over his brow and ear and jaw, along with the stream of “yes, John, good,” from above him was encouraging. And arousing as hell. Frantically he worked a second and then a third finger into Sherlock, who hissed a little at the intrusion.

“Ah, sorry, love, sorry,” John breathed, switching back to two fingers and peppering soothing kisses everywhere he could reach while he scissored and bent his fingers slightly. The urgent need to fuck Sherlock, to feel his pulse rushing hard and strong, ebbed, and in its place the simple desire to touch, to stroke, to kiss. _Why not_ , he thought, and stilling his fingers he carefully shifted up to brush his lips, lightly, against Sherlock’s slack mouth. The hand against his temple slid and carded through the hair at the back of his neck, and their mouths came together again and _Christ_ why had they not done this before.

 _I could kiss Sherlock all day_ , he thought, and before he could stop himself he was saying it out loud, right into his mouth. “I could kiss you all day.”

Sherlock went still.

“What?”

John shook his head, forced a chuckle.

“I don't know. I'm just… saying things.” He shifted back down to focus on pleasuring his flatmate’s arse, but his chest felt twisted.

“No, that’s not right,” he amended, staring resolutely at the elbow Sherlock was resting on. “Fuck. I _love_ you. Shit. Shit fucking bugger _fuck_ crap, I’m so sorry, I didn't mean to complicate this. Let me - here, I’ll get you off and then I’ll… go.’’ He wrapped his hand around Sherlock, determinedly not looking at his face with his mouth and his cheekbones and his… tear-filled eyes?

“John, you are astounding. Ah! Stop, stop that a moment. Are you labouring under the mistaken belief that I do not adore you, and that you should move out so you don’t… irritate me with unrequited affection?”

“Um,” John said.

“Because it wouldn't be unrequited,” Sherlock clarified. It took a moment to compute. John slipped his fingers from Sherlock and wiped them on the towel laying on the bed.

“I’d really like to kiss you again,” he admitted.

“Yes, John, yes.” Strong hands drew him up until he lay mostly atop Sherlock. Lazily they slid lips and then tongues together.

“I could kiss you all day,” he repeated.

“You’d be very welcome to.”

John shifted a little and hissed as his erection slid against Sherlock’s.

“We can do both,” Sherlock said encouragingly.

“Hmm?”

“Kissing all day. And sex.”

“You truly are a genius,” he teased.

 

* * *

 

 

Capturing with his mouth the little puff of air that escaped Sherlock’s lips when he pressed into him was nearly enough to make him come.

“I love you.”

Sherlock hitched his feet a little higher and pressed his heels against John’s sacrum, pulling him in deeper.

“And I you. Kiss me again.”


End file.
